Have to start somewhere

I'm a pretty simple guy, with a complicated background. I'm a dreamer, always have been. I was born in Calgary in 1970. My father was born here, my Grandfather was born here, his Father was born here and his father before was also born here. Our family has been shaping, in some small way the path of this City for many generations. Not that it's taken us anywhere special in most peoples eyes. Just good hard working people trying to find our way.
  Like many families, my folks split up when I was very young. I have no memory of them ever being together as a married couple. Just as well mind you, those two go together like oil and water. As was the custom, I was awarded to the custody of my Mother which was a poor decision on everyone's part, but then again, these were the ways of the time I was in. Now, make no mistake, I hold no ill will towards either of them for the choices they made. I'm far past the days of trying to find some reason to blame ones parents for the short falls that life just tends to throw at you. This is the past we speak of, and no amount of idle narration will undo anything.
   For all of this, I was awarded something few ever get to experience as children. I was gifted with Grandparents that took me every summer to a place free of troubles. The cabin at the Lake. While the four walled structure still stands today, directly on the shores of Windermere Lake in British Columbia, the cabin I knew as a child is long gone. After the passing of my Grandfather on my 16th birthday, the cabin was sold shortly there after. The reasons for the quick liquidation of assets I'm told vary. The family was broke and needed the money, the memories were to hard to face, or any of the other reasons I can come up with, none really seem to make it easier. I have carried this torch for all the forty years of my life and if I can find a way, by God, I will one day get it back.
  Some of the best memories I can recall are of waking in the wee hours to the sounds of my Grandfather waking up in the next room and walking into the kitchen to begin his glorious routine. The routine of making breakfast. I would roll over onto my side in bed and look out the window. The lake was mirror calm; a perfect reflection of itself and the mountains beyond. Loons would call from across the lake and then the smell and sound of bacon frying on an iron skillet would reach my room. Heaven. To a little boy I was as close to Shangri La as I would ever get. I was slow to rise, still am. I would eat my breakfast quietly as my Grandfather was a quiet man himself, then place my dishes in the sink, walk down stairs and out onto the dock and tempt myself into going in for a swim before the sun rose over the cabin and warmed the water. Sometimes I convinced myself, usually I chickened out and went back inside.
 As with most summers, the time spent away from life at home was never long enough. It seemed like no sooner was I unpacking my suit case to begin my time nestled in the mountains, then the time came to pack up and head for home. This was, however, a good thing. The briefness of my holidays lead me to appreciate those days from a very early age. Perhaps it is because of the short time spent, that I think so fondly of those days of my youth.
   My earliest memories of school are of a daycare I believe was on Elbow drive in Calgary. I remember it had a trampoline in the back yard. Nap time was spent in a communal room and for some reason they made us sleep with sheets covering our faces so we couldn't see the other kids in the room. Funny how we remember the strangest things. Among other things I recall, was a drawing I made of an underground city, I was so proud of the sketch, then I threw up all over it.
   I remember being in Prelate Saskatchewan, although I have no recollection of moving there. I went to a Catholic School which was rather awkward since I was as Catholic as The Pope was Jewish. Sister Anne Margaret was my teacher, I would have been about seven at the time. She wasn't overly fond of me. Not so much because of my lack of faith, but because I was a left handed heathen I believe. Hard to say I guess. Memories are so fuzzy that far back. There was a girl that lived across the street. My Mother remembers her name. I think she even told me she ran into her once in Medicine Hat. We were, although briefly, friends for a time, then she moved away and I never saw her again. This was a typical routine in my world. I really didn't mind so much. I was able to get into more trouble on my own than in the company of others. My solo act also helped me to become the creative individual that I believe myself to be today. Old saying," Life throws you Lemons..."
  Well, looks like I'm out of characters. How ironic.